“Using what technique?”

He came around from behind the bar, hitched his trousers, buttoned his jacket, and slapped me on the back.

“Your charm, your Ph.D., bald-faced lies- whichever feels best.”

Ramp slipped into a deep sleep. I cleared the bottle, glass, and cup from the table, put them in the bar sink, and dimmed the lights until they were no longer cruel. A phone-in to my service yielded no messages from Boston, just a few business calls that I handled for half an hour.

At four-thirty the phone rang: someone wanting to know when the Tankard would be open again. I said as soon as possible and hung up feeling like a bureaucrat. Over the next hour I disappointed lots of people wanting to make dinner reservations.

At five-thirty I felt cold and adjusted the air-conditioning thermostat. Pulling a cloth off one of the other tables, I draped it over Ramp’s shoulders. He continued to doze. The great escape. More in common with Melissa than either of them would ever know.

At five-forty, I went into the restaurant’s kitchen and fixed myself a roast beef sandwich and cole slaw. The coffee urn was cold, so I settled for a Coke. Bringing all of it back to the bar, I ate and watched Ramp continue to sleep, then phoned the house he’d once called home.

Madeleine answered. I asked if Susan LaFamiglia was still there.

“Oui. One momen’.”

A second later the attorney came on. “Hello, Dr. Delaware. What’s up?”

“How’s Melissa?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“How’s she doing right now?”

“I got her to eat, so I suppose that’s a good sign. What can you tell me about her psychological status?”

“In terms of what?”

“Mental stability. These kinds of cases can get nasty. Do you see her as someone who can deal with court without cracking up?”

“It’s not a matter of cracking up,” I said. “It’s the cumulative stress level. Her moods tend to go up and down. She alternates between fatigue and withdrawal, and bursts of anger. She’s not stabilized yet. I’d watch her for a while, wouldn’t get right into litigation until I was sure she’d settled down.”

“Up and down,” she said. “Kind of a manic-depressive thing?”

“No, there’s nothing psychotic about it. It’s actually pretty logical, considering the emotional roller coaster she’s been on.”

“How long do you think it’ll take for her to settle down?”

“It’s hard to say. You can work with her on strategy- the intellectual part of it. But avoid anything confrontational for the time being.”

“Confrontational is mostly what I’ve seen from her. That surprised me. What with her mother being dead only a few days- I expected more grief.”

“That may relate to something she learned in therapy years ago. Channeling anxiety to anger in order to feel more in control.”

“I see,” she said. “So you’re giving her a clean bill of health?”

“As I said, I wouldn’t want to see her go through any major upheaval right now, but in the long run I expect her to do okay. And she’s certainly not psychotic.”

“Okay. Good. Would you be willing to say that in court? Because the case may end up hinging on mental competence.”

“Even if the other side has engaged in illegal activities?”

“If that turns out to be the case, we’ll be in luck. And I’m looking into that angle, as I’m sure Milo told you. Jim Douse just went through a very expensive divorce and I know for a fact that he bought too many junk bonds for his personal portfolio. There’s talk of some funny business up at the State Bar, but it may turn out to be nothing more than dirt thrown around by his ex-wife’s attorneys. So I’ve got to cover all bases, assume Douse and the banker acted like saints. Even if they didn’t, with the way books can be juggled, major skullduggery can be hard to uncover. I deal with movie studios all the time- their accountants specialize in that. This case is sure to get nasty, because it’s a sizable estate. It could drag on for years. I need to know my client’s solid.”

“Solid enough,” I said. “For someone her age. But that doesn’t mean invulnerable.”

“Solid’s good enough, Doctor. Ah, she’s coming back now. Do you want to speak to her?”

“Sure.”

A beat, then: “Hi, Dr. Delaware.”

“Hi. How’re things going?”

“Fine… Actually, I thought maybe you and I could talk?”

“Sure. When?”

“Um… I’m working with Susan now and I’m getting kind of tired. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow it is. Ten in the morning okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Dr. Delaware. And I’m sorry if I’ve been… difficult.”

“You haven’t been, Melissa.”

“I’m just- I wasn’t thinking about… Mother. I guess I was… denying it- I don’t know- doing all that sleeping. Now, I keep thinking about her. Can’t stop. Never seeing her again- her face… knowing she never will… again.”

Tears. Long silence.

“I’m here, Melissa.”

“Things will never be the same,” she said. Then she hung up.

Six-twenty, still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I phoned my service and was told Professor “Sam Ficker” had called and left a Boston number.

I phoned it and got a young child on the line.

“Hello?”

“Professor Fiacre, please.”

“My daddy’s not home.”

“Do you know where he is?”

An adult female voice broke in: “Fiacre residence. Who’s calling?”

“This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning Professor Fiacre’s call.”

“This is the babysitter, Doctor. Seth said you might be calling. Here’s the number where you can reach him.”

She read off the number and I copied it down. Thanking her, I gave her the Tankard’s number for callback, hung up, and dialed the one she’d given me.

A male voice said, “Legal Seafoods, Kendall Square.”

“I’m trying to reach Professor Fiacre. He’s having dinner there.”

“Spell that, please.”

I did.

“Hold on.”

A minute passed. Three more. Ramp appeared to be rousing. Sitting up with great effort, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve, blinked, looked around, and stared at me.

No apparent recognition. Closing his eyes, he drew the tablecloth around his shoulders and settled back down.

Seth came on the phone. “Alex?”

“Hi, Seth. Sorry to bother you at dinner.”

“Perfect timing- we’re between courses. I couldn’t get much on the Gabneys, other than that their leaving wasn’t totally voluntary. So they may have been up to something unsavory but I sure couldn’t find out what it was.”

“Were they asked to leave Harvard?”

“Not officially. Nothing procedural as far as I can tell- the people I spoke to really didn’t want to get into details. What I gathered was that it was a mutual thing. They gave up tenure and split, and whoever knew something didn’t belabor it. As to what that something is, I don’t know.”

“Anything on the types of patients they were treating?”

“Phobics. That’s about it. Sorry.”

“I appreciate your trying.”

“I did run a search through Psych Abstracts and Medline to try to find out what kind of work they were doing. As it turns out, not much. She never published anything. Until four years ago, Leo was still cranking the stuff out. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. No more experiments, no clinical studies, just a couple of essays- very soft stuff. The kind of rÉsumÉ-filler he’d never have gotten published if he wasn’t Leo Gabney.”

“Essays on what?”

“Philosophical issues- free will, the importance of taking personal responsibility. Spirited attacks on determinism- how any behavior can be changed, given the proper identification of congruent stimuli and reinforcers. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“Doesn’t sound too controversial.”

“No,” he said. “Maybe it’s old age.”